Running from Ramsay
by Lena Fields
Summary: One shot, the title says it all I hope.


**Running from Ramsay**

She was running. Running through endless darkness. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of the cold, the rain slapping her face, the salty taste of her tears on her lips. But none of these feelings forced their way up, for only one was important: the instinct to survive.

* * *

She would have been frightened, no, she should be frightened, but she couldn't. It might be the wine was taking its toll; she had been forced to take too many of it. It had been cold for days now, and the enduring rain had chilled her to the bone. Above all, she was hungry and thirsty. She had taken from the castle what she thought would be enough food for at least a week, and money to last her all the way to safety; but in the first case she had been mistaken, and in the second she would never know, for the savages had taken it all. They were encircling her now, pinning her to the tree so hard the bark would have hurt her back if she hadn't been so drunk. She thought she would have been safe away from the road, but she had gotten lost and found herself on a sidetrack, surrounded by a group of outlaws. First, she had thought they would rape her at the spot, but their captain had been smart enough to recognize the softness of her hands and the fineness of her clothes for what they were: signs that she was high born. They had taken her captive, fed her well and let her ride her own horse. The first time she had tried to run away, they had laughed, slapped her a few times and let it go, but the second time they hadn't been so kind. She had been bound hand and feet. About that time, the horrible jokes and hands touching her skin had started. Tonight, she had been tight up against this tree. Although it was a full moon, the thick leaves of the forest didn't allow even the tiniest ray of light through, and but for the small fire that seemed so far away, it was dark around her.

They had come up to her one by one. None of them had fed her, as they hadn't done since she had tried to run away the other day. But they had given her wine, lots of it, and laughed, laughed and laughed while she drank, too scared and cold to even try and refuse.

Their captain, a foul reeking man by the name of Garran, had come up to her, asking her questions about where she came from, where she was running to, and who was going to pay them for her ransom. Everytime she didn't answer, he would hit her. She realized by then she was actually luckily to have had so much wine: together with the rain that had turned her skin to ice, it helped numb the pain. It would be necessary, for she wasn't going to yield them any information. Not because she was very brave at all; simply for the fact that she couldn't. If she didn't tell them, they would hit her near death, rape her, and leave her behind, and although the chance was small, there was still a chance she would live. If she did tell them, they would certainly take her back to the castle, where nothing was certain, except for one thing: a torturous, slow death.

Because they would definitely pay the ransoms. O, whatever their plans were, she knew she was part of them. And even without those plans; well, the Bolton's would never allow for anyone to slight them. Especially not him, the Unthinkable Bolton, the one that would probably be chasing her right now, sending his dogs for her. Even thinking about him scared her; maybe one of his gods would hear her thoughts and lead him on his way.

'Cut her loose. If she won't say anything, she can at least make herself useful!' boomed Garran's ugly voice. The men around him roared in laughter. They talked loudly in excited voices, making cruel jokes. She felt them tearing at the ropes around her wrists. She tried to raise her hands to protect herself, but the ropes were simply replaced by strong hands that dragged her to her feet. The captain kneeled.

'Let's see what a lady she is!' his voice was everywhere, and his was the only one she heard over the ringing in her ears. He dragged her right boot from her foot, took of the sock, and twisted it upwards painfully. Then suddenly, his dirty tongue was stuck out, sliding over the sole of her foot, while the men around him now screamed like animals.

'What say you, men?' he asked. 'Seems like a lady's soft feet to me!' More laughter.

'Well, your ladyship,' he continued, suddenly so close to her face that she could smell his stinking breath, 'enjoy your last seconds of being high born, because when we're done with you, there won't be much of that left.' He took of her other boot, and then tore away the breeches she had been wearing. She screamed as his hands touched her, noticing in the back of her throat that even though she thought she had said nothing yet, this was definitely not the first time she screamed that night.

Well, if she was to die, than rather here than there, in the darkness of the castle. _Make it quick_, she prayed to the gods. _Please, just make it quick_. She closed her eyes – and then something splattered all across her face, and she froze.

She froze because she could smell it, and taste it on her lips – and she recognized the blood. _No_, she thought, paralyzed against the tree. _No!_ The hands that were holding her let go, and the laughter of the men around her made way for screams. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to keep her eyes closed, but the sounds were unmistakable. Frightened horses running all through the camp. Men screaming. Fleeing. Fighting. Dying. Dogs barking. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The camp had turned into chaos. Everywhere, there were men fighting. She tried to focus her sight, and vaguely saw horses fleeing, chased by barking dogs, and one of the wagons catching fire. Garran was lying dead at her feet, an axe in the right side of his face, making it unrecognizable. Brains and blood had spattered all over her shirt and bare legs. She stared at him for a few seconds, then looked up. And in the middle, suddenly very clear, she saw Him. Covered in blood, his mouth opened in savage screams, his eyes filled with the awful craze, the all-consuming fire that she had seen in them so often. He must have somehow felt her stare, because he looked up, directly at her, and their eyes crossed. It took her only a split second. _Run. Run!_ She turned and ran for the trees.

She wasn't wearing her shoes anymore, but it didn't matter, because she was so cold, scared and beaten, that she didn't feel the stones and sticks braking the soles of her feet anymore, nor the branches that slapped her across the face and mingled Garran's blood with her own. Deeper within the forest, it was pitch black. The branches hid her traces from the full moon, but they weren't far away. She could hear their voices, could hear the hoofs of the horses stamping the floor. The barking of dogs came closer. She would have been out of breath, but she felt like she could keep running forever. The shirt was blackened with thick layers of mud, as was her hair; the same colors as the night. The deeper she got into the forest, the more hidden she would be. She looked over her shoulder, trying to see if she could already see their horses. Although they were out of her sight, their sounds were nearer, and they couldn't be to too far away. Anyway, in this darkness 'out of sight' meant very little. So she kept running, forced her legs to move on, even though the ground was shaking and her sight was so mingled she was only aware of vague shapes. Her head pounded, and with every beat it seemed to urge her to keep on running.

She was so focused on searching for signs from them, that she didn't notice she was running into the light until she was surrounded by it. She stopped as she felt the water that suddenly reached her ankles. For a moment, it was so silent her breath seemed louder than music. She turned herself away from the forest and felt the panic as she saw she had reached some sort of river, and was bathing in the light of the moon.

_Get out, get away, you must get away from the light!_ The voice in her head screamed. She took a few steps forwards and felt the ice-cold water bite her skin. She scrambled back, tripping over a branch, falling down in the water, and stood up again. She had no choice. There was only one place to run, and it wasn't back. So she started wading forwards, trying to stifle the sounds of her ragged breath. _Please, please,_ she pleaded with the gods. _Please help me, please!_ She didn't notice how strong the current was until she was in waist-deep, but she had no choice but to go on. One more step. She had to start using her arms to push the water away. Another and suddenly she was in to her neck, but her feet still reached the bottom, she still had a chance, she could… she screamed in pain when her ankle got caught under water and twisted heavily to the side, but the sounds of her screams were muffled by a gulp of water that smothered her. She started coughing and had to use all the strength of her arms to keep her head above water. But it was too little without both her feet steadily on the bottom. In one swift movement, the water lifted her up and the current took her away. She tried to fight it, but her strength was leaving her, and the cold had nearly paralyzed her limbs. _Help_, she thought once more, but in answer, she only felt a heavy blow, and everything went black.

* * *

When he heard the men's voices booming in the distant, he knew. Whatever it was, he could feel a good fight, smell it as well as his starved men, who had been riding for days in a row, could smell the burning meat. Blood smelt it too; the horse stamped his hoofs on the ground ferociously.

Edrick, his outrider, led his horse up to his.

'It's about forty of them, master. I'd say we could handle them. Most are drunk.'

'Good,' he said, feeling the need for blood creeping up his veins. 'Kill the guards. Encircle the camp.'

Soon, he could see that the tactic would work easily: the outlaws were all drunk and unawares. He found himself where he loved to be most; at the front, with Edrick on his left side and Reek on the other. Looking upon their little camp, he noticed there were a lot less of them around the fire as he had expected, nor were it the voices of the few around the fire that were carrying across the small open spot into the woods. He searched the small place with squinted eyes, and that was when he saw. They were laughing, gathered around something pathetic that they had tight to a tree. What had they caught? Some meaningless creature would certainly provide them the pleasure a knife on soft flesh could provide the carrier… One of the men, apparently their captain, for he had the best spot, sat at the feet of the creature. He stood up and used one hand to tear at the woman's clothes – he was pretty sure the creature was a woman now – and used the other hand to wave the men around him a few steps away. It was not until they had backed up a little that he recognized the white, miserable shape pushed up against the tree.

Rage exploded inside him like poison. It was stronger than any of the feelings that had kept him raging through the forest in search of her, the runaway. His mouth opened in a roar. How _dare_ they! She was _his_, and his alone! His hands moved to the side, grabbed the first thing they touched - the handles of the axe Edrick had been holding - and threw it away with all the anger in his body. The axe flew through the air and planted itself exactly what he had aimed for: in the head of the outlaw's captain. He was vaguely aware of screams, but the sight of blood had already done his work. Before the body had hit the ground, Ramsay had reached for his swords and trusted Blood forwards.

His roars had woken the men around him, and the outlaws were scrambling to their feet. They didn't stand much of a chance - for as much as they managed to stand at all - while his men flooded out of the forest all around them and started killing. One of them managed to block Ramsay's way. Angrily, he slashed out with his swords and hacked the man apart wildly, but the interference had distracted him long enough from his goal to not see the panicked horse coming that fell in front of him and blocked his way. He turned Blood, but was now surrounded by two or three other men, too far away, too far away from her, from what was rightfully _his_. He killed one and then looked up, straight into a pair of eyes so clear that they seemed like lights in the distance. One second, then she turned and disappeared into the darkness behind her.

He screamed an order, trampled something with his horse and raced into the direction of the forest, followed by Edrick and some others. Inside, it was pitch dark, and with the ground all soaked by days, weeks of raining, it was impossible to see which way she had run.

'We need light, master!' one of his followers called.

He knew it was true, but wouldn't let himself wait.

'Get it, then!' he roared, and spurned his horse forwards.

Racing through the forest, it was her, and her alone that he could think of. He would use his nose to find her; that had always worked well for him, and even with all the rain, he would sniff her out soon. He would recognize her when he came close enough, her eyes would light up again and she would shine to light his way. But too much time went by without a trace, far too much time, and he was getting even more angry.

There was light, he saw, but it wasn't her eyes. It was the moon, shining on a small, but overflowing river. He pushed Blood right a few yards, watching the ground closely by the light of the moon. If she had been at the riverside, her footsteps needed to be here somewhere. Then, all of a sudden, he heard a muffled scream in the distance. It was very soft over the thundering of the river, but he recognized a scream when he heard one. His heart seared up in triumph.

'Here!' he bellowed, turning his horse towards the sound.

He felt something while he raced down the river– something he couldn't quite place – looked around him, and then saw a shape, tangled half underwater, stuck between the weeds of the shore and heavy rocks. He heard his shouts answered, but didn't wait. It was his for the taking, and he wouldn't let go now. He got of the horse and pulled of his cloak and boots while making his way as close to her as possible, then threw himself into the water.

The current was amazingly strong, and he wondered how something so small had managed even halfway through. Trying to swim, he had to allow the current to drag him to the stones, where he managed to grab one of them. His other hand enclosed itself around thick hair. When he pulled her face close to his, he could not see the light of her eyes now, because they were closed, and swollen and bloody too. He didn't need to hold on long. His men were finally coming up to them, and their horsepower and a thick rope was enough to get him to shore. He pushed away the arms that reached for him, dragged her little body up and noticed that it looked more broken than any one of the many bodies he had seen dead. She was whiter than a skeleton, her hair tangled around her face. He threw her to the ground. It looked like her right leg was twisted, and there were bruises everywhere; however, the cold had stopped the bloof from flowing.

He did not need Edrick to tell him. 'She is not breathing, my lord. She is...'

'No!' he said. When would they realize that her death was his to decide over?

He looked up. His intuition had not deserted him. Between his men stood one other that had managed to keep up on foot, the shape of Reek, greyish and bent like a cripple, panting. Reek's eyes widened in fear when his master looked at him. He trusted himself forwards, grabbed Reek and threw him onto the floor next to her.

'The iron kiss!' he belted. 'Give her the iron kiss!'

'Master, I…'

'Do it now!'

'But I do not…'

'DO IT!'

As Reek bent, Ramsay felt humiliated, both by having to remind his servant of his life before his master, and by seeing the horrible reeking bastard kiss her, taking her lips like they were his, pounding her chest like it was Reek, not Ramsay, that owned the girl. Just before he wanted to grab him and throw him into the water, the slimy servant backed away himself. He used his arms to protect himself from the beating his master started giving him.

'Alive, alive, she is alive!' he pleaded.

Ramsay looked up immediately, and saw that the stinking mongrel was right. Her chest, however feeble, was moving. He panted, feeling the stares of his men on his face. He wanted to lift her up himself, but he couldn't, not here, not now. And anyway, it didn't matter. He had won, it was a victory. She was his again. So he ordered someone else to.

'Get her to the camp. Now!'


End file.
